


Dealbreaker

by ofplanet_earth



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, M/M, ace!barduil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-08 14:10:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8848108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth
Summary: Most of the time, Thranduil felt like this could be enough— or maybe he hoped it could be. Enough just to laugh and to enjoy Bard's company, to feel normal and to avoid all the messy stuff. Enough to keep from getting his heart broken and hurting the people he cared for. It could be enough for him to be happy. This right now— this should have been enough.But then it was over, and Thranduil wasn't sure it was enough. He felt strained and weak, as though his heart might buckle beneath the weight of the longing he felt. He wanted more, and he wanted more with Bard. He wanted it so badly he almost couldn't stand being so close to him without being able to hold him and tell him how much he—"Thran?" Thranduil came back to himself with a start. Bard was standing a few paces away, studying him with a small frown. "You alright?"





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissAntlers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissAntlers/gifts).



> happy holidays! this is my secret santa gift for MissAntlers! you mentioned ace!barduil in your list, and I've had this story bouncing around in my head for a while.
> 
> first let me say that I'm so sorry I'm posting this so late— I severely underestimated how long it would take to proofread 17 thousand words and I really hope I haven't overlooked anything. 
> 
> also, it's been six months since I wrote anything, so I apologise for being a bit rusty, but I really hope you enjoy it!

❡  
December

It was dark. The light from the flatscreen mingled with the soft glow of the fairy lights strung over the fireplace. Soft, sombre string music echoed through the vast and empty house.

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen this film before,” Bard whispered. 

“Shhhh!” Thranduil held out his hand to shush him, eyes fixed on the screen across the room. “I can’t watch if you’re talking the whole time.” 

Bard chuckled and settled deeper into the sofa cushions, reaching periodically to take popcorn from the bowl Thranduil had all but forgotten he was still holding. He couldn’t believe he’d never seen this film before, either— it couldn’t have been more than half-way through but already his emotions were in shambles. Tears welled in his eyes and he discretely wiped them away with the sleeve of his jumper, sniffling softly to try and pull himself together. 

“Are you really crying?” Bard asked, but Thranduil couldn’t be arsed to feel embarrassed about it. 

“Shut up,” he spat, though the way his voice cracked lessened the effect somewhat. 

“Oh my god, you are.” 

“Shut _up_ ,” he said again. “I’m missing important dialogue.” 

The room slipped into relative quiet again while the film continued to play and Thranduil, though still no better at hiding it, continued to fight tears. 

By the time the credits began to roll, Thranduil had given up all pretence of pretending. Bard handed him a tissue without a word. “You are cruel,” Thranduil stated. “How could you make me watch such a sad film?” he asked once his eyes were dry. 

“Oh, please. You know you loved every second.” 

“I did,” Thranduil sniffed. “The science was way out there, but god, it was so good!” 

“I told you,” Bard said, and a quick glance confirmed the smirk Thranduil could hear in his tone. 

“Remind me never to doubt your taste in cinema ever again.” 

“I swear, I will never let you forget about this moment as long as you live.” 

“You’re such an arse,” Thranduil laughed. He expected a retort or an insult, but none came. He turned to Bard, fully prepared to continue his banter, when suddenly Bard’s face was very close. 

They both hovered there a moment, Bard’s eyes bright and as they shifted downward and he leaned in closer, finally pressing his lips against Thranduil’s lingering smile. 

Thranduil’s heart leapt in his chest and the breath froze in his lungs, excitement and shock keeping him immobile until finally, he closed his eyes and let himself give in. It was a soft, tentative thing, that kiss— as if they were both afraid of being turned away, but everything about this felt _right_. 

Bard brushed Thranduil’s hair back from his face and held him so gently. He was terrified and exhilarated all at once; his heart was beating erratically as Bard kissed him with all the patience and all the tenderness in the world. Thranduil felt safe and wanted— he felt loved for the first time in so long, his chest ached around the unfamiliar feeling.

“Wait,” he he gasped, pulling back and holding Bard at a distance even as he tried to follow. “I’m sorry,” he said, steeling himself against the reaction he knew was coming.

Bard was breathing nearly as heavily as Thranduil was. “Don’t be sorry,” he laughed, but Thranduil could see the doubt beginning to creep into his features.

“No, I am. I’m so sorry, but I just— I can’t.”

❡  
September

This was useless. Thranduil closed his laptop and leaned back in his desk chair with a sigh. He had an exam in the morning, but no matter how hard he tried, no matter how long he sat with his textbooks, he couldn't bring himself to focus. He'd been at it for hours, and he wasn’t sure he could look at his screen for another second.

As if the universe had heard Thranduil's wish for a distraction, the sound of guitar strings drifted through the thin walls of his dorm. He didn't recognise the song being played, but he sat back and closed his eyes, enjoying the respite the melody had provided.

The next song was faster, the chords were louder and more confidant. Thranduil thought he recognised this one, though he couldn't place the name. An idea came to him and he tore a piece of paper from the back of his notebook. He scribbled out a message and crossed the room, the music growing slightly louder with each step. 

He stepped into the corridor and turned right, leaning in to listen at the door to the room next to his. He stood in the hall, listening, waiting, and slipped the folded sheet of paper beneath the door. He knocked and rushed quietly back to his own room, easing the door shut and straining to hear in he silence that followed.

There was the click and creak of his neighbour’s door as it opened and then closed. Another song started shortly after, and this one, Thranduil knew he recognised. He smiled and crept back into the hallway to listen. He hadn't asked for any song in particular— only if his neighbour could play anything by The Beatles— but he was pleasantly surprised to hear the familiar notes of _Across the Universe_.

He sat on the floor in the space between his door and room 218, his eyes closed and his head tipped back against the wall. 

"Thran," Feren stood frowning in front of their room, rucksack hanging from one shoulder and a couple textbooks clutched in his arms “Did you lock yourself out?” 

Thranduil said nothing, only held a finger over his lips. Feren tried the doorknob to find that it was unlocked already, rolled his eyes, and pushed his way into their room. Thranduil stood to follow him after a while, tore a second piece of paper from his notebook, and scribbled a second note. 

_Thanks! You’re really good_ , he wrote, and signed it with the number 216.

He stepped out into the hall again in time to hear the last verse, and slipped his note beneath the door to 218.

"Are you writing notes?" Feren asked once Thranduil had returned and closed the door behind him. "Like secondary school crush, writing notes to our neighbour?" 

"I don't have a crush," Thranduil laughed. "They started playing and I asked them if they knew anything by The Beatles, that's all." 

"That's all, is it? And I suppose the dopey bloody smile on your face means nothing, does it?" 

"No, it doesn't." Thranduil insisted. He sat down at his desk again and put on his headphones just to prove his point. But he didn't turn on any music, hoping instead that his neighbour would continue to play and that he'd be able to hear it well enough with Feren digging through his rucksack behind him. 

The guitar did start up again eventually, but not before Thranduil caught a small movement out of the corner of his eye. He ignored it for a while— at least until he was sure Feren wasn’t watching.

There was a note on the floor; a piece of notebook paper folded in half and slid beneath the door. Thranduil picked it up and carried it back to his desk before reading it. 

_any time,_ it said.

❡  
October

Thranduil pulled his mobile from his pocket, smiling at the photo that appeared on the screen and answering on the second ring. “Hey,” he greeted.

“Hey you.” 

“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately.” 

“It’s alright, I’ve been busy too," Nimrodel sighed on the other end of the line. “But I miss you. What are your plans for dinner?”

“Microwave soup and half a dozen peer reviewed articles. I have that essay due on monday,” he said as he closed the textbook that lay on his desk.

“Thran! It’s a friday night! If ever there was a day to take a break, it should be today. And besides,” she hummed. Thranduil could picture her sly smile just by the sound of her voice. He was hopeless against that smile. He knew it, and Nimrodel knew it too. “I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.” 

“Not fair!” Thranduil cried. “How am I supposed to focus on my essay now?

“Come to dinner with me,” Nimrodel pleaded again. “I’ll help you study tomorrow, if you like.” 

“Alright, you win.” Thranduil sighed dramatically. 

“Great! Meet me at the Union Pub at seven, yeah?” 

“Okay. I’ll see you then.” 

“I can’t wait,” Nimrodel said. 

“Bye,” Thranduil smiled, waiting for the line to disconnect before attempting to return to his work.

❡

Although he'd tried, Thranduil had gotten almost no work done after that phone call. He’d sat at his laptop for an hour with his textbooks and several articles open in front of him, but he hadn’t been able to focus on a word of it and eventually, he’d given up.

He arrived at the pub early, but Nimrodel was there already, wearing a simple yet elegant blue dress with her light hair loose and falling over her shoulders. She stood out against the friday night university crowd, making Thranduil feel underdressed in his dark denim jeans and grey jumper without even trying. But he forgot all about that when she spotted him in the door way, smiling and waving him over to the booth she’d claimed.  
“Hi,” she beamed and slid further along the bench to make room for him 

“Get a room!” shouted a voice from across the bar. Nimrodel peered around Thranduil’s shoulders to scowl at a friend of hers sitting across the pub. Thranduil didn’t bother to look. 

“What did you want to talk about?” he asked, nervously chewing his bottom lip while Nimrodel began flipping through the menu.

“Don’t you want to eat first?” She laughed. 

“I may die of suspense before we get our food.” 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“Would you have me any other way?” 

“No,” Nimrodel smiled and glanced down at her hands where she was wringing them in her lap. “You're a great guy, Thran. You’re wonderful. You've been so kind and so good.“ She reached the few inches between them to grasp Thranduil's hand.

“Uh… thank you?" 

"I know this can't have been easy for you." 

“What’s not easy? What do you mean?” 

"Hang on, let me finish," she met Thranduil's gaze again, her eyes wide and serious, seeming to search for something in Thranduil’s expression, though he had no idea what it was, or if it was even there.

"Nim, you're scaring me." 

"Oh! No," Nimrodel laughed and reached to brush a lock of Thranduil's hair behind his ear. "No, it's not that!" She gave him a dazzling smile, but it did little to settle Thranduil's nerves. "Christ, you're practically perfect." 

"Practically?" Thranduil joked, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to give a convincing smile. 

"Yes, well. I have yet to make the final determination,” she teased. “What I mean to say is that I really appreciate you being so… patient… with me.” Thranduil said nothing, only watched as Nimrodel seemed to gather her courage as she fixed him with her gaze once again. His stomach was in knots. 

“I wanted to ask if you’d like to come to mine,” she said. “Spend the night, if you like." Thranduil had gone tense, but Nimrodel didn't seem to notice; a light blush had risen on her cheeks and she kept her eyes trained on where she was running her thumb across the back of Thranduil's hand. 

"I thought—“ Thranduil cleared his dry throat. "I thought things were going really well," he stuttered. He had no idea what he was trying to say, but his heart was racing and anxiety had coiled tightly around his chest. 

"We are," Nimrodel laughed. "And you've been so great, not pressuring me, but…I think it's time we, _you know_..." 

Thranduil didn't know. 

“…Got serious," Nimrodel clarified. She looked into Thranduil's eyes again, but she didn't seem to notice anything was wrong. She slid closer along the smooth wood of their booth and her hand came to rest on Thranduil's leg. 

"I thought we were pretty serious already." He forced a nervous smile. They'd been together since the spring of that year. If this wasn't serious, Thranduil didn't know what was. 

"Don't joke, you know what I mean," she leaned in and kissed him and a strange, sick feeling bloomed in his gut. Nimrodel tipped her chin, pressed herself flush against his side and brushed his throat with her fingertips. A sneaky flick of tongue brushed across Thranduil's frozen lips. 

He was daft, he knew. If he were anybody else, they'd be halfway to Nimrodel's dorm already. "M-maybe— maybe another time," he mumbled and ducked his head. 

"What d'you mean?" Nimrodel's voice had lost its playful edge and immediately, Thranduil wished he could take it back. The last thing he wanted to do was to hurt her, but he knew the damage had already been done. "Don't you want to come home with me?" 

"I… I love spending time with you," Thranduil pleaded. "And I'm honoured that you trust me enough to— to want to…" 

"Oh my god," Nimrodel snatched her hands away from Thranduil’s neck, shifting further away on the bench. "Are you gay?" 

"What?" 

"You're gay, aren't you?" 

"That's not— No!"

"So it's just me, then?" 

"What? No! I _like_ you, Nimrodel!" 

"That's great, yeah. You like me, just not enough to want to sleep with me." It wasn't a question: her tone had gone hard and she crossed her arms over her chest. 

"Nim—" 

"Why date me if you didn't want to fuck me? What's the point?" 

"What's the—" he sputtered, at a loss. "To get to know you, to spend time with you!" 

"And then dump me?" 

"I'm not— no! Nim—" 

“You are some piece of work, you know that? God, what is wrong with you?" She spat as she turned to gather her coat and purse.

" _Please_ —" 

“Move.” she said tersely. Thranduil was frozen in his seat, blocking the end of the booth Nimrodel so clearly wanted to leave. 

“Can you please just listen to—“ 

“Thranduil—“ 

“I don’t want this to end—“ 

“—Move,” she said again. Her jaw was set and her watery eyes had gone cold. She might have seen the tears that were rising in his eyes, too, but she refused to look at him. Thranduil stood slowly from his seat, watching in resignation as Nimrodel took the first opportunity to jump to her feet and take off toward the door.

❡

Thranduil thought of leaving, but he couldn’t stomach the thought of being alone, and so he went to sit at the bar. It was quiet for a university pub on a Friday night, but he was glad for it. Generic music drowned out most of the conversation around him, the barman didn’t ask any questions except if he wanted another pint, and he didn’t stare.

This would be Thranduil’s last drink, he told himself. He didn’t want to go back to his dorm, but he knew one more would almost certainly turn into two, and Thranduil refused to be the man who needed to call a cab home after being dumped. 

And he had been dumped. She may not have said so— not in so many words— but Nimrodel would not be calling him again. He didn’t understand There was something wrong with him, something that made it impossible for him to be happy with anybody for longer than it took them to _get serious_. Nobody thought Thranduil was worth their time once they figured it out, and he was beginning to believe them.

 _What's the point? What is wrong with you?_ The words played over in his head until another voice broke through and asked, "What are you drinking?" 

Thranduil looked up from his glass, unsure whether or not the stranger was talking to him. The man was tall, tanned, with a soft looking flannel collar poking out from beneath a worn black leather jacket. His hair was dark and windblown, curling gently around his face and coming to an end just below his chin. His chin was peppered with short, coarse stubble— the kind that meant he hadn't shaved for a day or more, rather than the spotty, scraggly stuff Thranduil himself grew. 

Thranduil caught himself before he could be accused of staring, turning his gaze quickly back to the glass in his hands. "Uh… Guinness,"

"Ah, that stuff is shite," the man said, and Thranduil could see him motion to the barman to get his attention. "Have you got any other stouts on draught?” 

"Sorry mate. Got a bottled Welsh knockoff, but only Guinness on draught.” 

“Knockoff? Surely you know better than to insult a Welshman’s native brew! What’s the name?” 

“Hell if I know. Starts with an F. You think I’m going to make a fool of myself trying to pronounce it and you got another thing coming.” 

“Felinfoel’s?”

“If you say so.” 

“Excellent! I’ll have two— three if you're not too proud to eat your words and try one yourself," the stranger said as he slid onto the stool to Thranduil’s right. The barman shook his head and wandered off to fetch the stouts.

“You, my friend, are in for a treat,” the stranger said to Thranduil.

"Did you… did you just offer to buy me a drink by insulting my taste in beer?" Thranduil couldn't help but to laugh. 

"Aye, and you'll thank me for it.”

“Do you often make friends this way?" 

"Nah," he shrugged. "I just can't stand to watch anyone choke down Guinness when I know there's something better to drink." 

"And you're so sure you know what I'll like?" 

The man shrugged and leaned both elbows on the bar. “Figured I’d take the chance. You looked like you could use some company." 

Thranduil wondered if he should be offended— if he should politely decline the drink and leave now— but then he’d have to return to his dorm. Alone. 

“I’m Thranduil.”

“Bard,” he said, and held his hand out for Thranduil to shake just as the barman returned with three bottles in hand.

“Glad to see you decided to try it,” Bard said as he picked up his own drink. 

“I figure I can take your word for it— it ain’t like this is coming out of my pocket.” 

“I can’t believe you even have to say it. What kind of man offers someone a drink without intending to pay?" Bard's tone was playful and his mouth quirked up at the corner. "Cheers," he said, tipping his bottle first toward the barman and then toward Thranduil. 

“Well I’ll be,“ the barman said, eyebrows raised as he studied the label on the bottle in his hand. "That's not half bad."

“It hurts that you doubted me, mate. Truly.“ Bard laughed as the barman shook his head and left them to their drinks while he moved on to help other patrons.

"Do you know each other?"

"Oh sure, that's Sam; good man. Studies botany, brews his own ale, grows his own barley and hops.” 

“So it’s safe to say he’s fairly knowledgable about his brews?” 

“Aye, I’d say so.” 

“And yet he’d never tried this one before?” 

“If you don’t like it, I promise I won’t be offended. You can leave after the first sip if you like.” 

“You sound sure.” 

“I am. Besides, if you do leave, I’ll have two instead of one.” 

Ah hell, what did Thranduil have to lose? Hadn't he just been wishing he didn't have to be alone? What harm could one more beer do, anyway? "Cheers," Thranduil said, and finally took a sip. He could feel Bard watching him as he drank, gauging his reaction. The stout was smooth and balanced and rich, and he had to admit, it was better than Guinness. ”Shit," Thranduil muttered, and took another sip. "Now you have to teach me how to pronounce this so I can order it on my own.” 

"I wouldn't worry too much,” Bard laughed, his own bottle poised just inches away from his chin, drawing Thranduil’s eyes to his stubble and the quick flash of teeth. "No one in this damned country would know if you said it wrong, anyway." 

"Are you Welsh?” 

"Aye, born and raised." 

"Are you here for university?" 

“Indeed.” 

“What are you studying?” 

“Education. Fourth year. You?” 

“Environmental sciences. Also fourth year.”

"So. What's your story? Why have you come to the pub alone on a Friday night?" Bard asked.

Thranduil hesitated, but he saw no point in lying. “I wasn't alone when I arrived,” he said.

“No” Bard gasped, seeming genuinely distressed. "What happened?" 

"I'd um, I'd rather not—" 

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry. It’s none of my business. Forget I asked, really." 

Thranduil nodded and took another swig of his stout. “What about you?” He asked with a sigh. "I suppose you always buy a stranger a drink when you show up to a pub." 

"Not usually, no,” Bard laughed. "I s'pose I was looking for some company, too.” 

"And you chose me out of everyone here?”

Bard scanned the patrons around them and Thranduil followed his gaze. There was a small but excited crowd by the flatscreen on the far wall watching a football match, and scattered couples and smaller groups picking at chips and sipping from pint glasses. "Slim pickings tonight," Bard smirked. "You at least have good taste in beer." 

"Here's to meeting your rather low standards.” Thranduil tipped his bottle in Bard’s direction, swallowed the last of the stout and reached for his wallet. He pulled out a few notes while Bard looked on in horror. 

“Don’t you dare,” Bard scolded. “Don’t you know it’s impolite to refuse a gift once it’s been offered? You Brits have no manners.” Bard cried dramatically. 

"We don't, no." Thranduil laughed and tossed the notes on the bar. “But I have my own tab to settle. And your friend Sam may have been serving me substandard stout, but he still deserves a tip." 

"Aye," Bard agreed. "That he does." 

Thranduil shrugged into his jacket and paused, searching for the correct words. “Thank you,” he said finally. “For the drink and for the company. I needed it.” 

“Any time,” Bard replied with a grin. “Maybe I'll see you around." 

"Sure," Thranduil nodded. "I'd like that."

❡  
November

Time passed quickly as midterms grew closer. Thranduil attended his lectures, studied for his exams and turned in his assignments, but all his free time was spent alone. He walked to the library one afternoon, about to claim his usual study table when he saw Nimrodel already sitting there.

He stood still for a moment while students brushed briskly past, wondering if he should find another table or if he should just leave. He stood there so long that Nimrodel eventually saw him; she glanced up quickly, as if she could feel someone was staring. Her eyes hardened a degree when she realised it was Thranduil, and that was all he needed to make his decision.

He turned and left the library, pulling his hood up over his head as he stepped out into the icy rain and trudging through the mud toward his dorm.

He was still shaken by the time he reached his room. His breath was heavy, his jeans were soaked and his cheeks were raw from the cold. He couldn't focus on any of his course material no matter how hard he tried, and he hadn’t even remembered to search for the book he’d gone to the library to find in the first place. He slammed his laptop shut and dragged his hands through his hair, fingers catching on damp knots until his eyes began to water. 

Thranduil squeezed his eyes shut and grit his teeth, but he couldn't stop the tears from coming. It wasn't even so much because of Nimrodel, or the fact that he'd seen her at the library. Thranduil just felt so… alone. He hadn’t spent any length of time with anyone besides Feren in weeks, and even that was more a friendship of convenience. They had nothing in common besides the fact that their beds were six feet apart from each other. Thranduil had rationalised that he’d been busy studying— that everyone was busy studying— but he knew that had little to do with it. 

Thranduil was just _so lonely_ and there was no one really he could turn to. 

Desperately, he picked up his mobile and navigated to his conversation with Nimrodel, typed out a message and pressed send before he could talk himself out of it. 

_I'm really sorry about what happened,_ it said. _Can we talk?_ Short, but sincere. He thought if he could just speak to her again, then maybe he could make her understand. But how? How could Thranduil begin to explain something that he didn't even understand himself?

He put his mobile facedown on the desk, determined not to let his hopes get too high. They did, of course, and his heart raced in his chest when his mobile vibrated with an incoming message. It was Nimrodel, as he'd hoped, but her response was only a single, curt word. 

_No._

"Fuck," Thranduil choked. Tears welled ever more furiously in his eyes until he couldn't hold them in any longer. A choked sob burst from his chest. Thranduil covered his mouth with a shaking hand, uncomfortably aware of how the pitiful sounds echoed from each corner of the room. 

He went on this way for what seemed like an endless stretch of minutes, until Thranduil's shoulders were shaking and his breath was short and choppy. Every time he tried to gain control of himself again, the tears only came with more force. 

He'd known what was going to happen, deep down. Maybe he'd hoped it would be different with her, that it wouldn't end as the others had, but he’d known. 

God, he really was a terrible person, wasn't he? Nimrodel was kind and affectionate, completely perfect in nearly every way, and Thranduil had just led her on. He'd let her think there was more to his feelings for her than there actually was— let her think he'd _wanted_ her the way she’d wanted him, and then— 

And then… what? 

He'd loved her, hadn't he? Or at least he thought he could. So why hadn’t he gone home with her? If that was what it took to make her happy, to make her stay, then why couldn't he do it? Christ, what was _wrong_ with him? 

Just then, the bold but gentle tune of a guitar drifted through the room. Thranduil froze; his self consciousness at the thought of his neighbour hearing him effectively silencing him. The notes were loud— much louder than it ever had been while his neighbour was practicing. Thranduil crossed the room to stand by the door, realising his neighbour was playing in the corridor just outside Thranduil’s room. 

The song was soft, the notes and chords cascading into something melancholy and beautiful. Thranduil didn't recognise the tune, but he found it suited his mood quite well and he felt calmer by the time it came to an end. He thought of writing a note and sending it beneath the door, but he felt vulnerable enough already.

As it turned out, he didn't have to. A piece of paper was delivered to him a few moments after the song had ended. Thranduil hesitated for a moment, but then he reached for the note. 

_are you alright? I wish there was something I could do.  
—218_

Thranduil sniffed and again felt self conscious. But he stood to grab a pen from his desk and contemplated his reply, scribbling it beneath the original message and sending it back into the hallway.

_Your song helped, thanks. I don't know it-- who's it by?  
—216_

_me, actually._

_No way._

_way._

_That's amazing,_ he wrote back. _Does it have any words?_

_not yet, but I'm working on it._

_I’d love to hear them, when you finish it. How long have you been playing?_

_since I was a lad. do you have any requests?_

Thranduil thought for a moment, but he couldn't think of anything he wanted to hear. Instead he wrote back, _Do you have another original you wouldn't mind playing?_

The response did not come on folded notebook paper, but rather in the form of a new song coming from beyond his door. It was a faster, more excited tune than the previous one, though there were still no words to accompany the music. 

Thranduil found himself smiling despite the dry burning in his eyes and the stuffy, congested nature of his breathing. Although sat alone on his dorm room floor, he no longer felt quite so lonely.

❡

“Can you please just get over yourself for one minute and recognise that I’m in the middle of a crisis right now?”

“Feren,” Thranduil sighed, “You’re picking out an outfit for a party, I’d hardly call that a crisis.”

“Says you,” Feren pouted, throwing yet another shirt onto the rumpled pile growing on his bed. “You’ve never looked anything less than perfect in your life.” 

“Seriously?” Thranduil spat. He motioned to his ratty pyjamas and the scars littering the side of his face, disbelief dripping from his voice. “Have you even looked at me lately?”

“Please,” Feren rolled his eyes and turned back to his wardrobe. “The brooding look works for you, and you know it. And nobody notices those unless you point them out.” 

“Please tell me you’re joking. I showered today for the first time in almost a week,” he said. It wasn’t something he was particularly proud of, but Feren was wearing on his nerves and he wanted little more in that moment than to prove him wrong. 

“Yeah well, the grunge look works on you too. Honestly, you should get dumped more often, it’s done wonders for your social life.” 

Thranduil scoffed, nearing the end of his patience. “ _What_ social life?” He cried. “I’ve hardly left this room all month!” 

“Yes, and several very interested suitors have emerged in your absence,” Feren smirked and tossed a pair of jeans across the room to Thranduil. “Now put those on— they make your ass look fantastic.” 

“Why should I care what my ass looks like?” 

“Because,” Feren rolled his eyes and turned back to the pile of clothes on his bed. “You’re coming with me.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“You’re coming with me to this party! You said yourself you haven’t gone out in a month. It’ll do you good to have some fun. Or a couple of drinks, at least.” 

“And I suppose this invitation is completely selfless and generous of you?” 

“Of course,” Feren said, finally pulling a shirt on over his head before combing his hair back with his fingers. 

“Mhm,” 

“What?” Feren paused by the mirror, his reflection shrugging and giving Thranduil a look. Thranduil crossed his arms and shifted his weight to one foot, shooting Feren a look of his own. “Oh come on, Thran! Melancholy may look good on you, but you can’t tell me you’re happy, spending all your time in here, alone, feeling sorry for yourself.” 

Thranduil let his gaze drop from Feren’s reflection. He didn’t say anything; the defeat was probably perfectly evident on his face. 

“It’s just a party,” Feren had turned away from the mirror and placed a hand on Thranduil’s shoulder. “Come with me and have a couple drinks. You never know— you may even enjoy yourself.” 

“I doubt it,” Thranduil sighed, but he let his hands fall to his sides. 

“Come on,” Feren whined. “We’ll show up together and make everyone jealous.” 

Thranduil didn’t go to many parties. He didn’t drink much, and he didn’t socialise with many of Feren’s friends, but he _was_ lonely, and he couldn’t deny that the idea of going out for the night had a certain appeal. “Alright,” He conceded. “But I’m not wearing this,” he tossed Feren’s jeans back toward his bed. “If you’re going to drag me there, I’m at least going to wear my own clothes.” 

“Deal,” Feren beamed and nudged Thranduil toward the mirror. “Now come on, I want to be fashionably late but I do want to show up before everyone’s completely wasted.” He let himself fall onto his bed, but not before pulling a bottle of vodka from his desk. 

“Why not? You’d be in good company.” 

“Shut up and get dressed. Broody and grunge are one thing, but even you can’t pull off the homeless look.”

❡

Thranduil sat on the edge of a blue sofa, pressed up against the intoxicated mass of university students beside him. Feren had wandered off some time ago with the promise to return soon, leaving Thranduil with a plastic cup filled with vodka and fruit punch and no one to talk to. Now his cup was empty and he stood from the sofa to make his way into the kitchen.

He cursed Feren under his breath as he pushed his way through the dense crowd that had gathered in the tiny flat. He felt claustrophobic, completely sober, and out of place. All he was doing was feeling sorry for himself, and he could have done that in his own bed just as well. 

He reached the kitchen, but there were yet more people blocking his path to the refrigerator. Thranduil fought his way there and poured himself some water, claiming a spot near the sink where the air wasn’t quite so warm. 

“Hey,” a soft voice cut through the roar of the party, and Thranduil turned to see a younger guy— at least he looked younger— with long, dark hair and an angular face. 

“Hi,” Thranduil replied, and took a sip of his water. 

“You’re Feren’s friend, right?” The boy slid easily around a drunk couple before coming to stand beside Thranduil. 

“Sorry, have we met?” 

“Oh! No, no. At least, not really. Feren’s told me about you, and I’ve seen you around campus.” 

“Has he,” Thranduil scowled into his plastic cup of water. 

“Oh, nothing bad, don’t worry,” the boy laughed. “I’m Meludir,” he said as he held his hand out between them. 

“Thranduil,” he replied and took Meludir’s hand before turning to observe the party again. There was a girl throwing up in the rubbish bin and yet another couple dry humping against the wall beside her. 

“It’s all a bit much, isn’t it?”

“A bit,” Thranduil chuckled in spite of his sour mood. 

“I didn’t really want to come, but all my friends are here, and they sort of forced me.” Thranduil frowned slightly as he studied the crowd again. “What about you?” 

“Feren practically dragged me here before promptly disappearing with some bloke.” 

“Haldir,” Meludir chuckled. “One of my friends. They’ve been locked in one of the bedrooms for an hour or more.” 

“Figures,” Thranduil grumbled. 

“Can I get you another drink?” Thranduil blinked at Meludir, with his bright eyes and shy smile. 

“Oh, um,” he considered it for a moment, his mind following the same circle of thoughts before he decided, “Sure.” Meludir had been dragged here too, he reasoned, and there was no need for them both to be miserable, was there?

“Great,” Meludir smiled again. “What would you like?” 

“Doesn’t matter. Whatever you’re having is fine.” 

Meludir’s smile was shy and his eyes were downturned as he nodded. “Be just a sec,” he said, before disappearing into the mass of people separating them from the refrigerator. Thranduil felt guilty that Meludir had to fight his way through the crowd just to fetch him a drink, but he’d offered, so he clearly didn’t mind.

He returned a few moments later, seeming to slip effortlessly through the growing crowd of people squeezing into the kitchen as he handed Thranduil one of the cups he was carrying. “It’s rum and coke. I hope that’s alright.” 

“No, that’s fine,” Thranduil said, accepting the drink with a small smile. “Oh wow,” he coughed after he’d taken a sip. “Are you sure there’s coke in here?” 

“Sorry,” Meludir grimaced. “Is it too strong? I can get you another one—“ 

“It’s alright,” Thranduil gave a choked laugh. “I just wasn’t expecting it.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“It’s fine, I don’t mind,” He said, feeling somehow lighter as warmth began to bubble in his belly. He smiled, ridiculously overjoyed by the simple fact that he’d found someone to talk to. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad party after all.

❡

Thranduil couldn’t be sure when it had happened. He’d been sitting on the sofa, shouting to be heard over the din of voices and music as he and Meludir chatted about their courses and their favourite music. But Meludir had reached over and taken Thranduil’s drink away, leaning over his legs to place both plastic cups on the table beside him. He never did quite settle in his seat again, and before Thranduil could ask why, Meludir was kissing him.

Rum and blood pounded harshly beneath his skin; static and heat bloomed in his lips and against his jaw where Meludir’s fingers brushed against his skin. He was slow to respond, but Meludir didn’t seem to notice. He pressed himself closer and opened his mouth against Thranduil’s, his tongue the seam of his stunned lips. 

Thranduil became lost in the sensations. He parted his lips and tipped his chin, let Meludir pull him closer as the noise around them seemed to fade. This wasn’t something he’d ever done before— kiss someone he’d only just met— but he realised just how much he’d missed the feeling of being so close to another person. For weeks he’d felt so isolated and numb, and here was someone he’d been able to talk; someone who seemed to enjoy his company.

Thranduil’s head was spinning. Meludir’s breath fogged warm and damp against his cheek, the sound of it seeming to block out all the noise around them. He felt as though he was underwater, the waves lapping steadily, rhythmically against him, one after another, until Thranduil couldn’t tell which way was up.

He pulled away, gasping for air, eyes wrenched shut against the onslaught of sensations as he tried to find his bearings. 

“Come on,” Meludir whined, and Thranduil reached through the dizzy space between them to pull Meludir’s hands away from the overheated skin of his neck. He blinked and closed his eyes again, struggling to find an anchor, to hold himself together as pieces of him began to float away. “Don’t stop,” Meludir whispered against his ear, his lips dragging wet and hot down Thranduil's neck. 

“No,” he said, his eyes flying open as the borders of his body snapped back into place. Meludir was sitting on his lap, one knee on either side of Thranduil’s hips, and his hands were beginning to pull at the button of Thranduil’s fly. “Stop.” He struggled to push Meludir’s hands away, his hands feeling large and uncoordinated. “I need to go.” 

“Come on, stay. We’re having fun!” 

“No, I need to leave,” he said again, his hands finally closing around Meludir’s wrists. 

“Don’t be such a tease.” 

Thranduil set his jaw and locked his gaze on Meludir’s blurry face. “Get off,” he told him.

“I’m trying,” Meludir smirked as he rocked himself down against Thranduil’s lap. 

“No,” Thranduil said again, forcing his way out from between Meludir’s legs and off the sofa.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Meludir spat, all the softness and seduction gone from his voice. “Yeah, whatever. Have fun finding someone else who can handle looking at your freaky face.” 

The words hit Thranduil like a physical blow, but instead of shame or self-pity, anger sparked and caught fire in his chest. “Fuck you,” he spat, and forced his way off the sofa and through the crowd. Thranduil didn’t care that he was leaving Feren alone— he didn’t expect to see him until the morning, anyway. He stormed out of the small flat, down the stairs and out into the night.

The chilled air felt like a balm on his overheated skin. He paused on the sidewalk to breathe it in deeply, fighting the lingering waves of drunkenness as he started back toward his dorm. Angry, hurt tears prickled at his eyes as he walked, but he wiped them harshly from his cheeks with the back of his hand. He returned to his dorm and fell into bed, struggling to slip off his shoes but not bothering with the rest of his clothes. 

He burrowed beneath the duvet, and only once he’d pulled it up over his head, blocking out the light he’d forgotten to turn off, did he let himself cry.

❡

Sleep was not kind to him. Thranduil swam through troubled dreams, tangling himself in his sweaty clothes, only to be torn harshly from sleep by the horrible, deafening siren of a fire alarm. He couldn’t be sure how long he’d been in bed, but weak light was coming in through the east-facing window, his limbs were stiff, and his clothes were stuck to the thin sheen of sweat on his skin. He clutched the duvet in both hands, ducking his head beneath the covers in an attempt to block out the cruel morning.

But the siren did not relent and Thranduil finally threw the covers away and rolled out of bed. His head was aching and his throat was dry, and he stumbled across the room in search of his shoes and his jacket. 

He found one shoe on the floor by the foot of his bed, the other had rolled beneath the bed and he knelt on the floor to fish it out, but he couldn’t find his coat. From the hall he could hear voices shouting and doors slamming, and through it all the siren wailed. It seemed to vibrate beneath his skin and press against his aching head. Finally he snatched his duvet off the bed and threw his door open before following the last of the sleepy students down the hall. 

Bundled inside his duvet, Thranduil stood amidst the milling crowd in the square. It was colder than it had been last night— or at least it felt that way. The siren could still be heard from this distance, though now he was far enough away that it had become bearable. He cursed whatever student had left the tinfoil on their burrito when they put it in the microwave.

Thranduil turned away from the dorms to find a place to sit down while he waited to be let into his building, but he collided with another person, instead. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his headache striking with a fresh vengeance as he regained his footing.

“My fault,” came the reply. 

“S’okay” he mumbled and tucked his duvet closer around his face, moving to step around the stranger and continue on his way. 

“Hey,” the voice persisted. “Don’t I know you?” 

Thranduil didn’t bother to look. “I don’t think so,” he replied automatically.

“No, I do. We met at the pub a few weeks ago.” 

For the first time since he’d staggered outside, Thranduil looked up to make eye contact with another person. And there was the guy from the pub, from the night he’d been dumped. His dark hair was mussed from sleep, but otherwise he looked completely composed— he’d been able to find his jacket before running out of his dorm.

“Oh,” he blinked, trying to force his mind to catch up. “Yeah, you’re the… snobby beer guy.” 

“I’m sorry,” he laughed, “you’ve been referring to me as Snobby Beer Guy?” 

“Well not— I mean— I haven’t been _referring_ to you as anything, it’s just…” 

“It’s just what you remember most about me,” he laughed. 

“I s’ppose, yeah,” Thranduil said. “Why, what have you been referring to me as?” 

“Sad Blond at the Bar,” The man shrugged, and wasn’t that just perfect? 

“That’s the thing you remember about me? That I was sad?” Thranduil could see him studying the scars on his face, more plainly visible in the early morning than under the dim lights of a pub. Most people couldn’t help but to stare once they saw them, but Bard seemed to avoid that easily. 

“Well, second to your name, but, yeah,” Bard shrugged. 

“That’s great,” Thranduil groaned. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could forget my name, set us on equal footing so I don’t feel like an arse?” 

“Sure thing, Sad Blond.” 

“Thanks,” he said. “I’m Thranduil.” 

“ _Thranduil_ , that’s right. I’d completely forgotten. I’m Bard,” he said, “just to spare you the embarrassment of asking.” 

“That’s right,” Thranduil berated himself, wondering how he could have forgotten as the memory clicked into place. “And you’re welsh, yeah?” 

“Aye.”

“And that stout we tried, it’s called… Fidder Foil?” 

“Your accent needs some work, but that’ll work just fine for an English pub.”

“Oh good,” he laughed. “Why are you out so early?” 

“Same reason as you, I’d imagine,” Bard said as he slipped his hands into his pockets again. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Fire alarm,” Bard motioned to Thranduil’s dorm, the movement coming from his shoulder and his elbow rather than his hands.

“You live here?” 

“Aye,” Bard chuckled, a flash of teeth catching Thranduil’s eye. “What did you think I was doing out here?” 

“Walk of shame?” Thranduil shrugged, startled and yet oddly proud by the bright laughter he’d elicited. 

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I had an early night” 

“Lucky,” Thranduil grumbled.

“Bad night?” 

“Yeah,” Thranduil sighed, feeling tired beyond the ability to lie or put up any sort of facade. He thought back to the heat and the sway of the previous night, to Meludir and the awful sense of _wrongness_ he’d felt in those last few minutes. “Bad night.” Silence stretched between them for a moment, punctuated by the chatter of nearby students and the ever-present cry of the fire alarm. 

The sun peaked above the trees at the far end of campus, it’s yellow light soft but bright in Thranduil’s eyes. “What time is it?”

Bard pulled his mobile from his pocket. “Quarter past seven.” 

“Oh my god,” Thranduil groaned and pulled his duvet more tightly around his shoulders, wishing for the relative comfort of his bed more than anything. Bard laughed and Thranduil scowled. “You’re far too chipper for quarter past seven.” 

“Oh I’m a scowling, grumbling arse on the inside, just like you. I’m just better at hiding it” he said raising an eyebrow at Thranduil. 

“Yeah, well. Bad night, bad morning.” 

“Look at it this way,” Bard said, motioning for Thranduil to walk with him further from the crowd. “Your day can only go uphill from here.” 

“You shouldn’t say that,” Thranduil sat on the curb across the street from his dorm, huddling inside his duvet as the wind picked up. 

“Why not?” 

“You have no idea how capable the universe is of royally fucking me over.” 

“Come on, it can’t be that bad,” Bard sat beside him, a gust of wind blowing his shoulder-length hair across his face. He laughed and brushed it away, seeming unbothered as Thranduil shuddered from the cold. 

“You’re tempting fate,” Thranduil said, but his attention was caught on the small dimples in Bard’s cheeks and the way his eyes turned green in the sunlight.

“Tell you what. If the universe decides it’s not done making you miserable today, you can blame it on me,” Bard said, so confidant that Thranduil thought he might be right. 

“Deal.”

❡

“Shit,” Thranduil spat. He tried turning the doorknob again, but it wouldn’t budge. He checked his pockets for his mobile one more time, but they were both empty.

“Shit shit shit!” He could not believe his luck— first the fire alarm, and now he was locked out of his room without his mobile, wearing last night’s boozy clothes and his duvet. He hadn’t heard from Feren since the party the night before and he had no idea when he’d be back, which left Thranduil stranded in the hall with no means of contacting anybody who might be able to help.

The corridor was empty— everyone else had found their way back to their rooms or gone off in search of breakfast. It was saturday, which meant there were no maintenance workers around, and Thranduil couldn’t even remember the name of his dorm manager. So he did the only thing he could do: he slumped against the door and settled onto the floor. The carpet was thin— hardly any more comfortable than the concrete curb had been. But if he was looking on the bright side— which, admittedly, he wasn’t— it was at least warmer in here than it had been outside. 

An hour must have gone by with Thranduil sitting in front of his door, duvet still wrapped around him, though he still felt exposed as he sat in the corridor by himself. He felt stale. He was so thirsty he was considering going to the communal toilet downstairs to drink from the tap, when footsteps began their approach from the stairwell at the end of the hall. 

“Thran?” 

“Feren, I swear to god, I’m going to smother you with your own pillow,” Thranduil grumbled. But it wasn’t Feren he saw walking toward him. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten my name again,” Bard said. 

“You,” he said, hints of real resentment momentarily colouring the tone of his voice before he could think better of it. 

“Closer, but not quite.” 

“This is all your fault.” Thranduil wasn’t really angry— not at Bard, anyway— but he was in such a foul mood.

“What’s wrong?” Bard asked as he came to a stop near Thranduil’s knee. 

“I’m locked out.” 

“Don’t you have a—“ 

“And my roommate ditched me last night so he could go off with who-the-fuck-knows and I haven’t seen him since.” 

“Could you—“ 

“My mobile is locked inside and I don’t actually _know_ his number.” 

“…And I said you could blame it on me if your day got worse,” Bard nodded. 

“Yeah, thanks for that.” 

“Okay, but… why are you here?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, how did you know to come here?” 

“This is my room,” Thranduil frowned. 

“Your room?” Bard looked at the door behind Thranduil, then back the way he’d come, as if making sure he was in the right place. “This is my room. Well, next door anyway.” 

“Next door?” Thranduil frowned, tipping his chin to stare at Bard with wide eyes. 

“Yeah. Two-eighteen.” 

“No you’re not, two-eighteen plays the—“ 

“The guitar, yeah,” Bard chuckled. I’m not very good, but— wait,” Thranduil watched as his expression fell slack as he came to the same realisation Thranduil had. “ _You’re_ two-sixteen?”

“Well if I’m not, I’ve just spent half an hour knocking on a stranger’s door demanding they let me in.” 

“You’re the one who’s been writing me notes and slipping them under my door?” 

“Well it sounds plain creepy when you put it that way.” 

“No! No, they were great, really. I can’t tell you how glad I was that you didn’t file a noise complaint.” 

“Have people done that?” 

“Oh yeah. I had at least five last year.” 

“Well they clearly have no taste.” 

“Clearly,” Bard said, the smile growing on his face. “Come on. You can stay with me while you wait for your roommate.”

❡  
December

Final exams were approaching with increasing speed, but Thranduil hardly noticed. He and Bard had been spending more and more time together, grabbing lunch in the canteen, studying, and working their way down a list of films Bard insisted Thranduil needed to see.

Now Thranduil stood in the middle of his room, surrounded by mounds of clothes and books and odds and ends that had migrated there over the semester. Finals were here, and Thranduil had to pack his bags to go home for the winter holiday. 

Suddenly his door burst open. He expected to see Feren run frantically through the room in search of one set of notes or another, as he'd been doing all week. But instead, Bard leapt into the room and threw himself on Thranduil's bed. 

"I'm free!" He cried, arms and legs flailing wildly in the air. "Took my last exam today— passed with flying colours, might I add— and now I have absolutely zero responsibilities for the rest of the week." Bard lay back with his hands crossed behind his head while Thranduil looked on in amusement. 

"That's great," he said. "You can help me pack." 

"Ugh," Bard groaned. "Correction: my only responsibility for the rest of the week is to pack. And book my bus ticket home." 

"Bus?" Thranduil tipped his head and turned to face Bard more fully.

"Yeah. I don't have a car and my folks can't come pick me up."

"You're going to take a bus to Wales?" 

"What?" Bard laughed. "No, of course not! My family moved here when I was a lad. We haven't been back to Wales in years." 

"Oh," Thranduil said. "I only assumed. Your accent is so thick sometimes I can't hardly understand a word you say." 

"And what's your excuse, then? Where are you from?" 

“I beg your pardon,” Thranduil gasped dramatically and clutched his chest with one hand. “I am English through and through, and you’d best be glad my father wasn’t around to hear you question my heritage.” 

"Yeah, alright. But what sort of English? Where are you from?" 

"Greenwood, if you must know." Thranduil sighed. 

"Hah! I knew I recognised that posh accent!" 

"Posh?" Thranduil scoffed. 

"Yeah, posh!" Bard laughed. “I bet you live in one of those giant old houses, too.” 

"Well where do you live, then?" Thranduil dropped himself onto the bed beside Bard, tucking one foot up beneath him. 

"Laketown. It's small, maybe twenty minutes away from Greenwood." 

“Yeah, I know it. And you're planning to bus there? What is that, like thirteen hours?” 

"Six, if traffic is good,“ Bard laughed. "But close.”

"That's insane." 

"I don't have much choice, really." 

"You can ride with me," Thranduil suggested.

"Yeah?" Bard looked up, as if he was surprised that Thranduil would even offer. "You'd do that?" 

"Sure," Thranduil shrugged, trying for nonchalance but feeling that he hadn't quite hit the mark. It was silly to worry so much about such a small thing; he was only offering Bard a ride home. He didn't care so much about the possibility of driving home by himself— he'd done it often enough— but he found that he wanted Bard to come with him. He wanted his company more than anything else. 

"That would be— I mean— if you really don't mind." 

"I don't," Thranduil said, perhaps a bit too quickly. 

"That would be great," Bard smiled and Thranduil found himself smiling widely in return. "When do you leave?"

"My last exam is tomorrow, but it's late. I was planning to leave Wednesday morning, if that's alright?" 

"Yeah! Yeah, that's perfect! I'll um, I'll help you pay for petrol, of course." 

"Okay, sure.” It hadn't occurred to him to split the cost of petrol, but he supposed it was common enough. It’s what friends often did. A sudden and immovable smile spread over Thranduil's face at that thought. They _were_ friends? He wasn't sure when it had happened, but he had found a friend in Bard. 

Suddenly, his last exam could not come quickly enough. It didn't matter that he was to be stuck at home for nearly a month afterward. He found himself looking forward to the drive home with more excitement than he could remember having about anything in a long time.

❡

Thranduil's duffel bag sat packed and ready beside the door, alongside a basket of dirty laundry he hadn't had the time to wash. It was nine o’clock on tuesday night and Thranduil was pacing his dorm, searching for anything he might have forgotten to pack before crawling into bed.

Ten o’clock rolled around, and Thranduil still couldn't sleep. Feren was snoring gently in the bed across the room and Thranduil could only stare at the ceiling. 

Just then his mobile vibrated on the desk beside him, the screen lit up with a new message from Bard. _I can't sleep,_ it said. 

Thranduil sat up in bed and unplugged the mobile from its charger. _Neither can I,_ he sent back. 

_I've got an idea._ came the quick reply, followed shortly by:  
_don't laugh._

Thranduil responded with a row of question marks. 

_do you want to build a snowman?_

Thranduil couldn't help it: he giggled. 

_I said don't laugh!_ Thranduil only laughed harder.  
_I can hear you, arsehole._

Feren rolled over in his bed, grumbling and cursing at Thranduil sleepily. 

_I'll meet you in the hallway_ , Thranduil replied. He slid out of bed, stepped into his boots, grabbed his heavy winter coat and a pair of gloves. Bard was already waiting in the corridor when Thranduil closed his door quietly. 

"We're going to build a snowman?" 

"It doesn't have to be a snowman," Bard said with a cheeky smile on his face. Thranduil rolled his eyes, but followed Bard as he began to stride down the hall. 

It was freezing outside. The wind was biting and Thranduil very nearly changed his mind and turned to go back inside. But Bard was already crouching on the ground just beyond the front entrance, packing snow between his hands. 

It was just the two of them in the square— the night was so quiet and still, it felt like they could be the only ones left on campus. 

"Come on, help me!" Bard grunted, and Thranduil saw that he'd amassed a rather large mound of snow already. "Start making the torso, I'll finish the base." 

Thranduil had not made a snow man since he was in primary school, but it wasn't difficult to make a giant snow ball. The snow on the ground was damp and heavy, and Thranduil's knees were soaked through almost immediately. 

"It's moments like this that I wish I was an art student,” Bard said as he began shaving corners and bits of grass and dirt from the base of their snowman. 

"It's moments like this I wish I were stronger— help me lift this." Thranduil sighed and stood up, feeling out of breath but trying to hide it. His cheeks felt raw from the wind, but at least he was warmer than he had been a few minutes ago. 

Together they lifted the torso onto the base Bard had built a few metres away. It wasn't round exactly, and it sat slightly askew, but Bard waved it off. "We'll fix it up once we've got the whole thing standing." 

The head was easier, but Thranduil still struggled to lift it high enough. All told, the snow man was nearly as tall as he was. They both went off in search of some sticks to use for the arms and, while Thranduil returned with thinner twig-like branches, Bard came back with short, broad fractures of wood. 

"What are those?" Thranduil laughed. 

"What do you mean? They're arms.” 

"They're more like stumps," he argued. 

"And what about those? They're completely disproportionate!" 

"At least they could be functional! You may as well just stick a couple of mittens on his sides and call it a day." 

"Maybe he's just wearing an over large puffy coat. Maybe he's a sumo wrestler?" 

"Sumo wrestlers still need arms!" 

"He's got arms!" 

"Fine," Thranduil sighed, flinging the sticks he’d found into the air. "Give him the tiny stump arms." 

"Thank you," Bard turned to attach the arms to the body of the snow man with a little humph. Thranduil gathered more snow, packed it loosely between his hands and, without pausing to give it too much thought, threw it at Bard's back. 

Stunned silence hung between them for a beat— two, three. Bard turned slowly, bits of snow caught in his hair and in the hood of his coat. His expression was as surprised as Thranduil's must have been— he could hardly believe he'd done it at all. 

"Really?" Bard finally spoke, and immediately crouched to gather his own snow ball. 

Thranduil cursed and ran to the far side of the snow man to gather more ammunition, but he wasn’t quick enough. An icy ball of snow struck him on the shoulder, fragments of harsh cold spraying his cheek and his neck. He cried out, but there was no time to stop. Bard had gathered two more snow balls and was now racing toward him. 

Thranduil scrambled to his feet and hurled the snow ball in his hand, quickly scraping up another handful with the other. The first did little to slow Bard down, though it landed square in the middle of his stomach. Then Thranduil rushed forward, skidding to a stop just before they collided, and crushed the handful of snow atop Bard’s head.

They both froze. Bard’s eyes were closed, his mouth hanging open in a silent cry of outrage, one hand raised and ready to throw the hastily prepared snow ball in his hand. His chest heaved heavily, each breath rustling loose, damp strands of hair that had fallen into his face. 

"I— I didn't—" Thranduil stammered, wishing for a moment he could take it back. The look on Bard's face was shifting from surprise into something else— a sharp, feral, challenging look. Thranduil was afraid for a moment, but glee shone bright in Bard’s eyes and he realised the curve of his mouth wasn't angry so much as it was playful. 

"Oh," his voice was a half-chuckle, half-growl. 

"Bard—"

"Oh, you're going to pay for that." 

"Bard no I'm sorry, I—" Thranduil's voice cut off abruptly as his breath caught in his throat. Bard had tugged on the collar of Thranduil's coat enough to expose the vulnerable skin of his neck, and then he’d managed to drop snow down the front of his shirt. Thranduil shrieked and jumped backward, trying frantically to brush the snow away and let get it out from beneath his clothes. 

It was useless. Bard was advancing on him again and Thranduil, rather than ducking and gathering more snow of his own, opted to turn and put as much distance between them as he could. He ran in wide circles and sharp zig zags, hoping his agility would win out over Bard's advantage in speed. 

When it became clear that he couldn't outrun Bard, Thranduil ducked behind their snowman, darting left and right to keep it between them, scooping up snow as he went. 

For a moment he worried that Bard would use the snow man against him— that he would push it over and bury Thranduil beneath the heavy, packed snow. But instead he dashed around it, too quickly for Thranduil to react. Thranduil threw both his hastily made snow balls at Bard as quickly as he could. They both hit their mark, but Bard seemed unfazed. 

He barrelled forward after him, eventually leaping forward to grab hold of Thranduil’s jacket. They tumbled to the ground together in a tangle of heavy limbs and damp ropes of hair, but the struggle did not stop once they landed in the snow. 

"No," Thranduil cried. "No, no no!" He raised his arms to block an attack, but his face was splashed with snow anyway. "Shit! Ah! Please, I'm sorry!" Thranduil reached for Bard's arms, trying to grab them, to stop him from grasping at more snow and, even more desperately, to keep them away from the cold and raw skin of his face. 

Cold water began to creep down his neck as the snow melted and Thranduil couldn't help his hysterical laughter. He tucked his shoulders as the snow began to seep through the arse of his jeans and the wool of his coat. 

"Stop! Stop please! I yield!" Bard froze with his arm above his head, a snow ball clenched in his gloved hand. He was laughing and his cheeks were burning with a bright pink flush. 

"Do you?" 

"I do! Please don't— no! No Bard, don't—" But it was too late. Bard brought his hand down and crushed the mound of snow on top of Thranduil's head. At first it wasn't so terrible, but then the snow crunched through his already wet and freezing hair. It was like a brain freeze, Thranduil thought. Like when he'd drunk slurpees too quickly as a boy. 

"Ohhh," he gasped, his eyes screwed shut against the cold and the ache in his scalp. Bard dropped to the ground beside him while Thranduil could only breathe through the pain. “Oh, I hate you so much!” he cried, but he couldn’t stop the laughter that bubbled up in his chest.

“You know you love me,” 

“You’re the worst,” Thranduil's heart was racing and his breathing was laboured. 

Bard propped himself up on his elbows. “You can put the skinny twig arms on the snowman if you like," he conceded.

“I don’t know,“ Thranduil panted. “The short fat ones aren’t that bad.” He picked himself up out of the snow and reached down to help Bard to his feet. "Christ, you weigh a ton," he teased.

"Yeah, well you've got snow in your hair," Bard laughed. 

"And who's fault is that?" 

"Yours."

"Oh really?" Thranduil's breath caught in his throat as Bard stepped closer, into his personal space. His cheeks and the tip of his nose were bright pink from the cold. His eyes glittered in the lights shining from above the front door of their building. Thranduil wished he didn’t have to go home for the holidays.— that they could both stay there together, passing notes beneath their dorm room doors and making snow men at all hours of the night.

"Really," Bard smirked and took a lock of Thranduil's hair between his gloved fingers, pulling gently at the chunk of ice that was tangled there. Thranduil’s heart fluttered at the closeness of it.

"And how do you figure that?" he asked. His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, but he told himself it was just the cold air, and that Bard couldn't tell. 

Bard smirked and his eyes flashed with an infectious sort of glee. "You started it," he said. Thranduil's gaze flicked down to Bard's lips, slightly chapped and parted. He watched the gusts of his breath mist in the cold night and Thranduil couldn't decide whether he wanted to shove more snow in his face or kiss him full on the mouth.

He did neither. He didn't want to start another snow ball fight, and he knew couldn't kiss Bard, not without ending their friendship. Thranduil dropped his gaze, suddenly aware of the way his icy damp clothes stuck to him, the way his knees and his fingers and his cheeks were starting to go numb. He'd begun to shake from the cold. 

Bard must have noticed his trembling, because he smiled gently and nodded back toward their dorm and said, "Come on. Let’s go inside." Thranduil watched as Bard stepped away, turned, and began walking toward their building.

Most of the time, Thranduil felt like this could be enough— or maybe he hoped it could be. Enough just to laugh and to enjoy Bard's company, to feel normal and to avoid all the messy stuff. Enough to keep from getting his heart broken and hurting the people he cared for. It could be enough for him to be happy. This right now— _this should have been enough_.

But then it was over, and Thranduil wasn't sure it was enough. He felt strained and weak, as though his heart might buckle beneath the weight of the longing he felt. He _wanted more_ , and he wanted more with _Bard_. He wanted it so badly he almost couldn't stand being so close to him without being able to hold him and tell him how much he— 

"Thran?" Thranduil came back to himself with a start. Bard was standing a few paces away, studying him with a small frown. "You alright?" 

"Yeah," Thranduil shook his head as if it would help him clear his thoughts. "I'm fine," he said. But he knew the flush in his cheeks wasn't only from the cold and his heart was still throbbing inside his chest; still frantic with exhilaration and still aching from the tenderness of that moment. 

This had to be enough. It _had_ to be, because Thranduil didn't think he would be able to forgive himself if he ruined it. It had to be enough because Thranduil couldn't risk telling Bard how he felt about him. He knew that even if Bard felt the same way, eventually he’d find out that Thranduil couldn’t give him what he wanted, and then he would leave. 

Thranduil felt dizzy as he took a step forward and began to follow Bard inside. His legs felt like jelly and his heart felt ready to burst. He was dying for a hot shower— but the dorms had communal washrooms. Bard had already said he was headed there before bed and Thranduil knew he didn't want to put himself in that situation, and so they parted ways, said goodnight and agreed to leave campus at 9 the next morning. 

Thranduil brushed the knots out of his hair and changed into pyjamas, his knees and his fingers still aching from the cold, and climbed back into bed.

❡

As it turned out, Bard was an exceptional road trip companion. He didn't argue for control of the radio, but he did offer up his ipod. He'd made a playlist for the ride, long enough that they could listen for the entire three hour drive and not have to worry about skipping songs Thranduil didn't like.

But Bard had great taste in music. Thranduil enjoyed every song, even the ones by artists he didn't know. They kept the music low anyway, never short on things to talk about or reasons to laugh. 

Thranduil found himself wishing the drive had been longer once they reached the outer limits of Laketown. But he pulled up in front of Bard's house and found himself dreading the lonely month that lay ahead of him. 

"We should hang out over the holiday," Bard said. He had his hand on the handle, ready to step out onto the slushy street, but he'd paused and turned back before opening the door.

"Yeah?" Thranduil tried not to sound desperate, but he couldn't bring himself to care if he'd failed. 

"Yeah— if you want to, I mean." 

"Absolutely," Thranduil said, perhaps a bit too fast. "You'd be saving me, honestly. It's incredibly dull at my house. I don't know how I'm going to make it until next term." 

"Well alright then," Bard laughed. "Can't argue with that." He made to push the door open again and Thranduil braced himself for the gust of icy wind that was bound to come, but Bard turned to face him again. The laughter in his expression had shifted, settled into something softer, something more earnest. "Thank you for the ride. Really."

"Any time." Thranduil said, and he thought Bard understood that he meant it. "Do you need help with your bags?" 

"Nah," Bard brushed the offer off. "I've got it." And with that he stepped out of the car and pulled open the back door. "I'll text you," he said as he leaned inside to grab his bags. Then he pushed the door shut and walked down the path to his front door, leaving Thranduil to drive to his own house without even a playlist for company.

❡

“Hullo,” Thranduil mumbled.

“Are you awake?"

“Hm?” Thranduil frowned. 

“We had a date! Don’t tell me you forgot.” 

Date? Thranduil's mind was slow and groggy until finally he realised— “Bard?” He snapped awake, panic and bewilderment racing through his veins. He struggled to find the words to say but after a moment of stuttering, he finally managed to ask, “What time is it?”

“It's quarter past eleven. And here I was feeling bad for arriving late.” 

"Where are you?"

"I'm outside." 

“Shit, I’m sorry. Just um. Give me a sec, I’ll let you in.” 

Thranduil disconnected the call before Bard could reply and cursed aloud. How had he let this happen? He scrambled out of bed, pulling the duvet along with him and clutching it around his shoulders. Then he clambered down the stairs, his socks nearly slipping on the hardwood.

He unlocked the door and turned the handle before he remembered to unlatch the chain. He was breathing heavily by the time he pulled the door open. “I am so sorry,” he blurted. 

“Well this looks familiar,” Bard chuckled as he stepped inside. “Do you always wear your duvet around when you’re not in public?” 

“Har har,” Thranduil rolled his eyes and closed the door again, his shoulders tense from the cold air permeating the entryway. His breath had returned to normal and he lead Bard through the hall and into the living room. “Have a seat if you like, I just have to um, get dressed.” 

“You really did just roll out of bed, didn’t you?” 

“No,” Thranduil deadpanned. “I’ve been awake for hours, I just wanted to make you wait for me and show you my underwear.” 

“Well they are rather cute, aren’t they?” 

Thranduil looked down. His head was still foggy with sleep, and it took a moment, but before long he realised that he was in fact standing in his living room— in front of Bard— wearing his duvet as a cape with only a t-shirt and a pair of pants beneath. And not only was he standing in front of Bard in his pants, but they were black boxers with red hearts.

Bard smirked, and Thranduil could swear his face was burning so hot it had begun to steam. “Fuck off,” Thranduil muttered and turned toward the stairs without another word. 

“You’re grumpy when you first wake up,” Bard called behind him. “The illusion has been completely shattered, I just want you to know.” Thranduil ignored him and continued up the stairs, dropping his his duvet onto the floor while he scoured his bedroom for a clean shirt. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, pulling a pair of jeans up over his _cute_ boxers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

❡

Bard didn’t bring up the events of that morning again. When Thranduil had finished getting dressed and come down the stairs again, Bard immediately began to bombard him with questions. “Is this your dad?” He asked, pointing to a framed photograph sitting on the mantle.

“Yeah,” Thranduil said, coming to stand beside him. 

“He knows Galadriel Galadrim?” 

“To say that he _knows_ her would be an exaggeration. He met her once at a gallery opening.” 

“What does he do, your father?” 

“Insurance.” 

“Is he home, or…?” Bard looked around the room as if Thranduil’s father might jump out from behind the sofa. 

Thranduil shrugged. “Business trip.” 

“So you’ve got the entire house to you yourself?” 

Thranduil had never quite thought of it like that— it always felt more like he’d been left behind. “I guess so,” he shrugged. “Feel free to come over any time. He’s gone until the new year.” 

“What?” 

“You can come over any time?” 

“No, the other part. He’s gone for the holiday? You’ve been left alone over Christmas?” 

Thranduil shrugged again, acutely feeling the weight of Bard’s eyes and the way they’d shifted from admiring— even a little envious— to sympathetic. Pitying, even. “It’s not a big deal. We haven’t celebrated in years anyway.” 

“Okay,” Bard nodded, as though he understood without having to be told that Thranduil didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “Do you need anything else before we leave?” 

“I don’t think so,” Thranduil shook his head and patted his left pocket to make sure he had his wallet. His keys were in the bowl on the entryway table and his coat was hung on the coat rack just beside it. “Should I need anything?” 

“Just warm clothes and your lovely self.” Thranduil rolled his eyes and lead the way back to the front door. He gathered his coat and his keys, and pulled a scarf down from the rack as well. He locked the door from the outside and followed Bard down the walkway and into the drive. 

Bard drove them through Greenwood and over the border into Laketown, pulling off the main road and onto a narrow lane. The sun was bright, but the air was biting and cold when they stepped out of the truck.

“So what kind of tree are you looking for?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I don’t know, I mean I haven’t done this in years but surely you need to know what you’re looking for. Like… do you want a tall one, a short one? Skinny, fat…?”

“If it were up to me, I’d go for tall and skinny.” Bard shot Thranduil a smirk as they walked between the rows of pre-cut trees. Thranduil’s eyes went wide and his cheeks burned hot in the chilly air. What was that even supposed to mean?

“But it’s not up to me,” Bard continued, as if he hadn’t just turned Thranduil into a sputtering, blushing puddle. “My da’s been going on about how weak our tree was last year, and how I’d better pick a sturdy one this time if I didn’t want it falling over again.” 

“Again? You mean it’s fallen down before?” 

“Aye,” Bard laughed. “It’s actually sort of a funny story. Our cat Alfrid is always causing trouble around the house. Unravelling entire rolls of toilet paper, leaving mouse guts on the kitchen floor, all sorts of shit.” 

“Your cat’s name is Alfrid?” 

“He’s my Da’s. He pretends he doesn’t like the cat, but I’ve seen them cuddling on the sofa enough times to know better. Anyway, we don’t let Alfrid go outside during the winter, and every year I swear he hates us a little more. After a couple of weeks being kept indoors, he starts terrorising the entire family— except my Da. Last year he climbed the Christmas tree in the middle of the night.” 

“Oh no,” Thranduil laughed. He could guess where this story was going. 

“Oh yes. It was well past midnight. I was the only one awake in the whole house, and I heard this giant crash and shattering glass. I thought someone had broken in, I swear. So I crept out of my room and snuck to the hall closet and dug out one of my da’s old golf clubs. I was fucking terrified. And what did I see when I reached the living room? The tree was lying on the floor, broken glass and garland all across the hardwood and—“ 

“The cat?” Thranduil guessed with a laugh. 

“Fucking Alfrid was sitting right in the middle of all the carnage, smug as anything, his tail flicking bits of broken glass. He didn’t move until after I’d picked up the tree and started sweeping up the glass. Then he just sat there watching me from the corner of the room.” 

“Oh my god.” 

“So naturally my Da blamed the tree I picked out. He fucking loves that cat. He came out of his bedroom while I was picking everything up— somehow _I _had woken him up by cleaning even when the crash of the falling tree hadn’t. He scooped Alfrid up off the floor and said he shouldn’t be around with all the broken glass on the floor. Course he didn’t listen when I said it was Alfrid who’d done it. I swear that cat was gloating.”__

__“But it’s not like he did it on purpose. It’s not like he was trying to get _you_ into trouble,” Thranduil reasoned. “He’s a cat.” _ _

__“You think that now,” Bard said, his face deadly serious. “But you’ll see what I mean.” Then he turned down another row of trees to his left and Thranduil had to hurry to keep up or risk getting himself lost amongst them. Honestly, there was an entire acre’s worth of trees sitting on this lot._ _

____

❡

The tree farmer gave them both an odd look when they walked up with what might have been the shortest, oddest looking tree on the entire lot. Bard’s satisfied smile lasted the entire drive back to his house.

“We’ve got to be careful of the door when we go in. Trust me, you don’t want to try to chase Alfrid down the street.” Thranduil believed it. They shuffled inside quickly and Thranduil pushed the door closed behind them before hefting the tree again and following Bard through the house. 

They set the tree in the stand and Thranduil held it upright while Bard instructed him to tilt it right or left before tightening the screws in the base to keep it upright. Thranduil watched as Bard filled a watering can from the tap and poured it off around the stump of the tree.

“Sorry about the mess,” Bard said as he picked up a blanket that lay bundled on the floor. Thranduil looked around, but he didn’t see a mess. 

He saw books on the coffee table and controllers for a gaming console lying on the floor. There was a sofa and two over-stuffed armchairs pushed against the walls and family photos lined almost every surface. The floors were scattered with area rugs worn with age but clean. It was cluttered, perhaps, but it was cozy, overflowing with warmth and bursting with life. It was so unlike Thranduil’s own house— vast and cold, always neat and tidy, and sitting empty most of the year. 

This was different, Thranduil could tell. This was a home. 

He said none of this. “It’s alright,” is what he said instead. “Where’s the toilet?” he asked. 

“Down the hall on the left. If you see a sign that says ‘NO BOYS ALLOWED,’ you’ve gone too far.”

Thranduil chuckled. “Do you have a younger sister?” 

“Two,” Bard said. “And a brother. They’re right pains in the arse when they want to be.” He rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t quite hide the affection in his expression. 

“Wow,” Thranduil missed. He was a little envious, he had to admit. He wasn’t often bitter about growing up as an only child, but there were moments, usually when he was sitting alone in his cavernous house, when he wished it could be different. “I’ll be sure to mind the sign,” He said, and started off down the hall.

❡

“Shit!” Thranduil shouted. He’d just washed his hands and pulled open the washroom door. He knew there was a cat around the house somewhere-- that wasn't what had startled him; it was more the _look_ the cat was giving him. It was sitting directly in front of the doorway, staring directly at Thranduil with bored, green-yellow eyes

“Everything okay? Bard called, and Thranduil could hear the thud of Bard’s boots on the floor. “You didn’t fall in, did you?” he chided, but when he arrived at the mouth of the hall, he burst out laughing. “I did warn you, didn’t I?” 

“You weren’t kidding,” Thranduil felt silly, especially since he’d been so vocal and Bard was there to witness his shock, but an unsettling feeling had sprung up in his gut, too. “It’s like he’s judging me.” 

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” 

“Is he mean?” Thranduil asked even as he crouched in front of the cat, hoping to make peace with the cat.

“Nah, he won’t hurt you. He’s more passive with his aggression.” Thranduil knelt in the doorway and reached his hand out, slowly. He brushed the backs of his fingers over the fur on the cat's head while Alfrid continued to stare at him with that level, bored expression. He blinked once. 

Thranduil suddenly felt a little unsettled. This cat was legitimately creepy. Alfrid just stared at him as he stood to his full height again and stepped over him. “Okay, I see what you mean.”

“Don’t take it too personally.” Bard said. “He doesn’t like anyone but my Da. 

Thranduil paused when he passed by the living room. The tree Bard had chosen wasn’t large, true, but Thranduil didn’t expect for it to look so… _small_. It was positioned in front of a bay window that overlooked the street. The tallest branch reached maybe halfway to the ceiling, while simultaneously taking up a significant portion of the room with its width. 

“What?” Bard looked around as if searching for the source of his amusement. 

“That tree looks ridiculous,” he laughed,

“I know,” Bard smirked triumphantly. “But let’s see my Da try and blame it on me or the tree when Alfrid fucks with it.” 

Just then the front door creaked open, letting in a gust of cold wind as a voice called from the entryway. “Hello?” came a woman’s voice. “Bard? Come help me with these groceries.” She was English, which wouldn’t have come as a shock under normal circumstances, except— 

“I thought you were Welsh,” Thranduil whispered as Bard gathered his coat from where he’d dropped it on the armchair. 

“I am,” he said. “Mum’s English, but my Da is Welsh and I grew up there.” 

Thranduil picked up his own coat to follow Bard and help with the groceries, stepping out into the freezing air in time to see a dark haired woman with rosy cheeks and a smiling face coming up the front steps. “You must be Thranduil,” she said. “Bard has told me so much about you!” 

“Don’t worry,” Bard called from the sedan parked in the drive. “I already told her all the embarrassing bits so you don’t have to!” 

“He’s joking, of course,” she said. “I’m Martha; I’m Bard’s mum.” 

“It’s nice to meet you.” 

“Come inside, come inside! Don’t worry about the bags, there are only a few left.” 

Thranduil held the door open for Bard’s mum, closing it swiftly to keep the heat— and the creepy cat— inside. Bard followed closely behind, his arms laden with paper grocery bags.

“Such service,” Bard grinned when Thranduil opened the door for him as well. 

“Bard,” 

“Yeah Mum?” 

“I see you brought home a Christmas tree.” 

“Aye,” Bard said as he rounded the corner to step into the living room. “What d’you think?” 

Thranduil expected she’d be angry, or at least chastise him for such an obvious prank, but instead she smiled widely at him. “It’s perfect,” she said. “I can’t wait to see the look on your father’s face!” 

“Your mum knew about this?” Thranduil whispered once she’d slipped past them on her way to the kitchen. 

“Of course she did. It was her idea. Now come on, help me with these,” he grunted and passed two of his bags into Thranduil’s arms.

❡

Bard's siblings began arriving home on the school bus shortly after. Sigrid and Bain were in secondary school. They both offered a perfunctory ‘hey’ and ‘hello,’ before retreating to their bedrooms. Tilda’s bus arrived last, and she burst through the door with bright, excited chatter while she removed her shoes, coat and mittens by the door.

She had brown, mousy hair, round cheeks, and she was missing one of her front teeth— which she pointed out to Thranduil with a wide smile. “My name’s Tilda. I’m six,” she told Thranduil proudly as she set her rucksack down on the floor and peeled off her jacket and mittens. “Who are you?”

“I’m Thranduil. I’m twenty-three,” he replied. 

“That’s old.” He could see the similarities between her and Bard— they had the same bright, wide eyes and the same dimple in their cheeks when they smiled. “Are you okay?” She asked, a concerned frown scrunching up her face. “What happened?” 

“It’s nothing,” Thranduil said, fixing his hair to hide more of the scars. “I’m alright.” 

“Okay,” she said, and immediately changed the subject. “Are you Bard’s friend?” 

“We go to uni together.”

“I’m going to go to uni some day, too!” Tilda said, bouncing on her toes. “Are you going to stay for dinner?” 

“Oh, no, I was just—“ 

“No, you should stay,” Bard chimed in.

“Absolutely!” His mum agreed, all three pairs of eyes focused on him.

“I couldn’t,” he protested. “I don’t want to put you out.” 

“Nonsense! I’m making enough stew to feed a small army and we’d love to have you.” 

“If you’re sure,” Thranduil said, hesitantly. 

“Of course I’m sure! Do you need to check with your parents first?” 

“Oh,” Thranduil stuttered, “no, I um—“ 

“Thran’s dad is away on business,” Bard chimed in helpfully. 

“Well that settles it, then,” she stated, as if that were reason enough to invite a near-perfect stranger to stay for dinner. 

“And can you help decorate the tree after?” Tilda asked, gripping the sleeve of his jumper with both her hands, practically begging him with her wide eyes. 

“Of course he can!” Bard’s mum decided. 

“And can we make biscuits?” 

“Yes love,” she laughed. “As long as you’ve finished your schoolwork.” 

“Mum,” Tilda rolled her eyes. “It’s Christmas break now; I don’t have any school work.” 

“Well then you best get in here and help me!” With that, Tilda ran into the kitchen, the plaits in her hair bouncing with each step. 

“Don’t mind her too much. She’s got a million questions, and she loves having guests over.” 

“She’s sweet,” Thranduil said. 

“Hello?” Called a new voice from the front of the house. 

“Da!” Tilda called, and immediately darted past Thranduil and Bard to greet her father by the door. Bard's mother followed close behind her, sharing a grin with Bard as she came to stand beside them. 

“Hello munchkin! How was your last day of school?” 

“Boring,” Tilda stated. “We didn’t do anything but read silly holiday books and sing songs.

“Not to worry, love. You’ll be reading real books again come the new year.” 

Bard’s father came into view as he passed by the living room, giving Thranduil, Bard and his Mum a perfect view of the moment he glanced over and saw the short tree sitting in front of the living room window.

“What’s this now?” He asked, looking between the tree to his left and his family— and Thranduil— to his right. 

“It’s a tree, Bryn. What’s it look like?” 

“And you think this is some kind of joke, do you?” He turned to Bard. 

“I don’t know what you mean, Da.” Bard grinned. Thranduil was mildly shocked— he couldn’t imagine speaking to his own father this way. 

“And I suppose you had something to do with it?” Bard’s father turned to his wife, one eyebrow raised. 

“Don’t know what you’re going on about,” she replied, fighting to keep her growing smile under control. Bard’s father glanced between them for a few moments while Bard and his mum looked on with near matching expressions of feigned confusion. 

And then, so brought and so sudden that it startled Thranduil, Bard’s father laughed. It was a deep, hearty laugh and it spread to Bard and his mum. 

“Well played,” Bard’s father said, clapping Bard on the shoulder and placing a kiss on his wife’s forehead. 

“I’m confused,” Tilda confessed as she came to stand beside Thranduil. 

“Me too,” he muttered.

❡

“What was your mum like?” Bard asked. They were seated side by side on Bard’s bed with their backs to the wall. He was close enough that Thranduil could feel the warmth coming off his body, even through the soft weave of his jumper and the inches of empty space between them. “I understand if you don’t want to talk about it. But if you do, I’d like to listen.”

Thranduil hadn’t told anyone about his mother in a long time— years, really. Everyone who knew him then knew what happened, and anyone he’d met afterward hadn’t bothered to know. He’d spent so much time over the years actively trying not to think about her, it had become a sort of habit. And now here was Bard, and he wanted to know, and Thranduil found himself _wanting_ to talk about her. 

“No, it’s okay,” he said finally. “I just spent so much time trying to forget that I… I worry sometimes that I really will.” 

“Was she nice?” 

“She was. Do you know I can’t remember her ever being cross with me? Not even when I was a boy. It just wasn’t in her nature, I suppose. To be angry, I mean. I have no idea how she ended up with my father; he’s always been so serious, so sour. She was always so happy and free. She made everyone else feel happy, too.” 

“She sounds lovely.” 

“She was,” Thranduil said. 

“What happened to her?” 

“It was a car crash. Mum was driving. I’d just got my license, but it was late and I was exhausted. I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I was in hospital.” 

“Jesus. Were you okay?” 

“Not really— not at first. The bones in my cheek and around my eye were fractured. The swelling was so bad I lost vision in my left eye completely for a while, but I’ve regained most of it. The glass cut so deep it was embedded in the bone.” 

“Thran, you don’t have to—“ 

“It’s okay,” Thranduil said, and he meant it. “I was unconscious for days, and even when I woke up I didn’t fully understand. I kept asking where she was, if she was okay. My father wouldn’t even tell me what had happened. I learned from the police that she died in the ambulance.” 

“He didn’t tell you?” 

“Maybe he couldn’t bring himself to, I don’t know.” 

“Still, that’s awful.” 

“Yeah. ”

“How did it happen?

“A truck ran a traffic light just as we were coming through the intersection. Pushed us clear across the street and into a lamppost. The car was completely crushed. I saw photos of it later. It didn’t look like one person could fit inside, let alone two.”

“Jesus,” Bard muttered again. 

“I don’t remember ever being angry with her while she was alive, but after she died, I…” Thranduil swallowed thickly, hesitant to say it out loud even after five years. “Everything began to go so wrong. My father was gone more and more often. I fell behind a year in school, all my friends moved on without me. And I _blamed her_ for it. I was so angry for so long.” 

“What changed?” 

“I did,” Thranduil shrugged. “One day I caught a look at myself in the mirror. The scars had healed and I could see out of both eyes, but I didn’t recognise myself. I couldn’t see anything but the hate and the blame and the anger, and it scared the shit out of me. I remember thinking, _Mum wouldn’t recognise me, either_.” 

“She would have,” Bard said after a moment. “And she wouldn’t have blamed you for it, either.”

❡

Bard arrived at Thranduil’s front door promptly at six pm on New Years Eve. “Hey,” Thranduil frowned. “What’re you doing here?”

“And a happy New Year to you, too.” 

“I just meant— we didn’t have plans, did we?” 

“Nope. Mum says hi. Now. Are you going to let me stand out here in the cold or are you going to invite me in?” Bard held in his hands two large paper shopping bags which he set down inside the entryway once Thranduil had stepped aside to let him in. 

“What’s in the bags?” 

“I’ve been thinking. You don’t get to celebrate Christmas anymore, and you apparently have no friends besides me—“ 

“A position which I’m very seriously questioning, at the moment,” Thranduil interrupted. 

“—So why don’t we have our own Christmas?” 

“But it’s New Years Eve.” 

“We can celebrate both! More efficient that way,” Bard picked up his bags and strode off toward the living room without another word. Thranduil followed behind slowly and watched as Bard pulled a myriad of Christmas decorations from one of his paper bags. “Come on,” he waved Thranduil over. “Help me put these up.”

❡

Half an hour later Thranduil’s living room looked like it had been ripped from a cheesy holiday catalogue. Garland and fairy lights were draped over the fire place, candles sat on each of the windowsills, mistletoe hung from the doorway, and a small pre- made tree sat on the coffee table with two Christmas Cracker and a Christmas cake sitting beneath.

“Bard, you didn’t have to do all this.” 

“Oh, hush.” Bard waved him off. “It was hardly any trouble. Plus, I didn’t have any New Years Eve plans, so really, you’re saving me from watching a string of bad films with my family.” 

“That sounds pretty nice, actually.” Thranduil said, trying not to feel jealous as he shuffled his feet against the carpet. 

“I know— all except the shit movies— which is why—“ he pulled several DVDs from the bottom of his paper bag— “I’ve brought a selection of _good_ ones for us to choose from.” 

Thranduil was speechless. 

“What, did you have anything better planned?” 

“Actually yes,” Thranduil said, swallowing through the clench of his throat to pull his mouth into a smirk. “I was going to stay up to watch the fireworks, enjoy the peace and quiet, and drink a bottle of my father’s best champagne. If I’m feeling really festive, I might open a second one and pour it down the drain,” he deadpanned. 

“Sounds great. We can open four, if you like. Now,” Bard fell heavily onto the sofa and spread out the selection of films he’d brought with him. “What should we watch first?”

❡

Bard leaned back slightly, his brow furrowed and his hands still tangled gently in Thranduil's hair. “What do you mean, you can’t?” Thranduil squeezed his eyes closed against the sound of Bard’s hoarse voice.

“I just can’t,” he said again, eyes trained on the bowl of popcorn in his lap, though he couldn’t bring himself to pull away from Bard, his fingers still caught up in Thranduil’s hair. 

“I don’t understand,” Bard pleaded. “I thought we— I thought you— I don’t know, I thought you liked me. “ 

“I do,” Thranduil confessed.

“Then what’s the problem?” Bard tipped Thranduil’s chin upward and ducked his own head to put himself in Thranduil’s line of sight, his brow drawn together and his eyes bright with worry. 

“It’s… it’s not that simple,” Thranduil sighed and lifted his gaze to meet Bard’s eyes directly. 

“Why not?” 

“You wouldn’t understand—“ 

“Try me,” Bard challenged. 

“I can’t,” Thranduil pleaded. He wanted to go back to when their friendship was simple, free of the complications of a kiss and impossible explanations. “I don’t even understand it myself.” 

“Okay,” Bard soothed. He brushed back the hair that had fallen in to Thranduil’s face and then let him go, instead taking the bowl of popcorn from Thranduil and setting it on the table. “Then try. Just talk through it, we can try to figure this out.” Bard’s voice was soft as a whisper, without a hint of anger or judgement; his gaze was searching, imploring, but patient. 

“There’s something wrong with me,” Thranduil said finally. “Something… basic, something vital.”

“No, hey. Why would you think that?” 

“Because. I’m broken. I hurt everyone who cares about me because I don’t— because I’m not— because I can’t give them what they want.” Thranduil’s eyes were tearing up and his voice had become brittle, but he kept talking. “And then they walk away. They leave because I’m not enough.” 

“What is it you think they want?” 

“To fuck,” Thranduil blurted. “Guys, girls, it doesn’t matter. Nobody is interested in getting to know me any longer than it takes to get in my pants, and nobody wants to be with me once they figure it out. I like you. I like you so much it terrifies me. Which is why I can’t do _this_ ,” Thranduil motioned vaguely between them with his hands. Bard’s mouth was pressed into a curt line, his eyes studying Thranduil with intimidating intensity, but he continued. “ Because I can’t lose you, too.” 

“You’re not going to lose me,” Bard said, reaching to close his hands over Thranduil’s. 

“I am. I started losing you the moment we kissed. I can’t be what you want me to. I can’t give that to you.” 

“You don’t know what I want,” Bard said, his tone growing lighter, more playful. “What makes you think I want to sleep with you, hm?” He joked. “I mean you’re cute, but I’m not really into the tall, handsome types.”

“Very romantic,” Thranduil laughed, glancing up in time to see the smile flash across Bard’s face. 

“This thing that you think you’re missing— this defect you think you have? It’s not problem with you. It’s everyone else. They’re the one’s who are wrong. _They_ fucked up. They walked away from the best thing they had, and I’m not going to make that mistake.” 

“Bard,” Thranduil warned. “Please don’t say this unless you mean it. Unless you _really_ mean it.” 

“Do you enjoy spending time with me?”

“Of course I do.” 

“Do you want to spend more time with me?” Thranduil nodded. “Do you want to learn all my deepest, darkest secrets?” 

“Well I’ve told you all mine. It’s only fair.” 

“Do you want to kiss me?” 

God, yes. Thranduil’s eyes instinctively flicked down to Bard’s lips, the left corner tugging up in a satisfied smirk. “Yes.” 

“Then what’s the problem?” 

“How can you know you’re not going to wake up one day and resent me? Or regret wasting your time with me?” 

“Why are you so sure I will?” Bard asked. “You are not a waste of time, Thran. I could never regret getting to know you, or spending time with you, or making you happy.”

“I—“ Thranduil sputtered. 

“Before you say anything else, I have a very serious question. And it’s a deal breaker, so give it some thought.” 

“Okay…?” 

“Thranduil,” Bard began, studying Thranduil with that same intensity. “Will you _not_ sleep with me?” 

Thranduil stared at him in silence, eyebrows raising in disbelief. “You’re insane,” he said. A hysterical sort of laughter was bubbling in his chest. Bard was watching him with the most hopeful gaze, waiting for him to say something— waiting for an answer to a ridiculous question. It seemed impossible that they could be together like this, but the look in Bard’s eyes— he seemed so sure. 

And suddenly Thranduil can’t stop smiling. He reached out, one hand gripping the soft flannel of Bard’s shirt, the other curling around his neck. It might have been the most awkward kiss of his life, but he couldn’t stop smiling. 

“Is that a yes?” 

“You’re ridiculous,” Thranduil grinned, and apparently that was the right answer. Bard kissed him again, slower, deliberate and searching, leaving Thranduil lightheaded and giddy as the clock on the mantle struck midnight.


End file.
